He put one leg over the rail then the other. Blade in his teeth, he leaped down to the floor. No more than a candle or two still burned. Mathi heard his bare feet cross the polished floor. Then the candles went out.
She let go, dropping hard on all fours. Time to move! Undoubtedly Balif would check the kitchen to see if everyone was there. Mathi had to be back before the general, or her lucky escape would be only temporary.
Fortune favored her again. When she emerged into the upper hall, she could hear Balif and Amaranthe arguing in hushed tones in the entrance hall. Smiling to herself, Mathi ran swiftly to the back stair and descended to the corridor outside the kitchen.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the warm, oven-baked interior of Artyrith’s kitchen. The aristocratic cook was dead asleep, numbed by his Runo nectar. Treskan had rolled over at the table, still snoring softly. (Who knew elves snored?) She skirted the slumbering scribe and went over to the sink. She waved her hand under the slender copper spout, and a stream of cool water trickled out. Gratefully she flung it on her face. She discovered the vein in her neck was throbbing.
Lofotan was still gone. Mathi sat down at the table where she had been before. There was enough nectar left in Artyrith’s second bottle for her to fill her mouth. She swirled the bitter liquid around and spit it out. Gods, she hated the taste of alcohol.
The door opened. Mathi slumped forward, one eye cracked. Balif stood there, barefoot and bareheaded, dressed in a sky-colored silk robe. He surveyed the room, face hard. Mathi could see the pommel of his dagger peeking out of the waist of his gown.
He walked slowly around the kitchen. Standing over Artyrith, he sniffed loudly. Finding the cook unresponsive, he moved on to Treskan. He nudged the scribe. Treskan snorted, turned his head away, and kept snoring.
Using the scribe’s change of tune as an excuse, Mathi lifted her head, feigning great drowsiness. Inside her heart was racing.
“Ah, Mathani Arborelinex. Just the one I came to find.”
“Me, my lord? What do you require of me?”
He picked up the empty nectar bottle, read the wax seal stuck to the bottom, and set it down upright.
“Have you been out of this room tonight?”
“No, my lord.”
“Someone was loose in the house. I tried to catch her, but she eluded me.”
She gripped the table hard to keep from visibly trembling. Still, she managed to say, “‘She,’ my lord?”
“I had a fleeting glimpse of a feminine silhouette.” The general appeared genuinely puzzled. “After my attention was drawn away, the intruder vanished from a closed room.”
Balif drew the knot tight on his sash. “Where is Lofotan?” Mathi explained the majordomo’s absence-the Runo nectar and Artyrith’s prank.
Balif was not amused. “I see. I remind you again to stay in this room, Mathani. I am only just learning about your life. It would be a pity to end it just at this new beginning.”
The girl merely nodded. With supreme grace, Balif said good night. He must have found Lofotan passed out down the hall, for the former soldier returned a short time later, white faced. Mathi greeted him with a cup of cool water. Strong nectar dried the throat.
Lofotan accepted the cup and swallowed the water swiftly. Eyeing the unconscious cook, his expression was murderous.
“You saw our lord?” Mathi asked innocently. Lofotan admitted he had. Though she hadn’t heard a single voice raised in anger, it was easy to imagine the dressing-down Balif had given his old comrade for deserting his post. Whatever he said, it had cut Lofotan to the core. The stalwart old warrior was badly shaken.
“You bore up well,” he said.
“I had only a sip.”
“It’s as well Lord Posturemuch is out,” Lofotan declared. “Else I would call him out to the field of honor for what he did!”
“Why pick on him? He’s no match for you,” Mathi offered.
Lofotan set down his cup, eying her. “That braggart, that proud, overweening imbecile, that …” He struggled for another insult and settled for, “That cook is also one of the most dangerous blades in Silvanost, believe it or not. If the time ever comes for us to fight, it will not be a light matter.”
Treskan groaned and stirred. Mathi filled a cup of cool water and set it by the scribe’s elbow.
Dawn arrived with a crash.
From the clang of metal and loud shouts, the girl’s first thought was that a battle was in progress. She opened her eyes. She was lying on one of the kitchen side counters, her head pillowed by a sack of flour. The luminars, which had all gone out once she and Lofotan stopped talking, were glowing brightly. Blinking, she sat up.
Artyrith, red faced, was tossing pots and pans into a wicker pannier. Another basket, already brimming with provisions, stood beside it.
“This is no way to travel!” he exclaimed. “Go now! Do this! Do that! How can I create decent meals under such conditions?”
“Who says your meals are decent?”
Mathi spied Lofotan by the door. He was dressed for the road-cloak, leather pteryges, and a finely wrought breastplate, carefully etched to soften its hard bronze sheen. A sword dangled from his left hip, and a war dagger from his right. He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe.
Artyrith still wore his wrinkled robes from the previous night. His hair was askew, and his face bore more distress than simply feeling harried. Ruined by Runo indeed. Seeing Lofotan’s insolent pose, he made an unpleasant suggestion to the majordomo. For once the usually dour Lofotan laughed.
“How about you? Are you ready to go, scribe?” he asked.
Treskan, very bleary, had only the clothes on his back, and said so.
“Go to the hall upstairs and wait upon our lord.”
Tired and stiff from her sojourn atop the kitchen counter, Mathi followed the scribe. They found Balif in the entry hall, dressed almost exactly like Lofotan. His armor was a little finer, but otherwise his kit was the same. Despite all the digging in crates and juggling of armaments, the pile of equipment Balif and his party were taking was very small-two panniers per elf, an easy load for a sturdy packhorse.
“Greetings, my lord,” Treskan said. “What do you require?”
“I require you to spell correctly and tell the truth,” he replied. When the scribe reacted with a blink and a stare, Balif hoisted a pair of loaded panniers onto his shoulder.
“Take these out and put them on the chestnut mare,” he said. “You do know about horses?”
He shifted the bags to Treskan, who grunted an affirmative. Knees bowed under the weight, the scribe shuffled to the monumental front doors. Only the postern was ajar, but he couldn’t fit through it with the panniers. Grasping the gigantic gilded latch, Treskan hauled the sixteen-foot-high bronze door open.
“Face the honor!”
The salute, shouted just a yard from Treskan, caused him to flinch and lose his burden. The loaded panniers crashed to the ground.
In the plaza before Balif’s mansion, six companies of warriors were drawn up in block formation. At the command, everyone raised his sword or spear to his face in salute. When they realized they were honoring the general’s clumsy scribe, the weapons fell with a musical clatter.
Strong hands boosted Treskan to his feet. Farolenu and another officer he didn’t know stood him on his feet.
Mathi peeked out the door. “Great E’li, what’s all this?”
“We’re here to escort the general,” said Farolenu. It sounded reasonable when he said it, but Mathi smelled the truth. Six companies of infantry would discourage the sort of popular parade that followed Balif to the Tower of the Stars.
Single warriors held the reins of five riding horses and five pack animals. With the help of some soldiers, Treskan got the panniers on the chestnut mare.
Lofotan emerged from the house. More careful, Farolenu waited until he saw who was coming before he ordered another salute. The veteran clasped hands with Farolenu.